


A Spring Storm (A Meta Autobiography Fic Fic)

by twohundredthousand



Category: Portrait de la jeune fille en feu | Portrait of a Lady on Fire (2019)
Genre: 1900s Paris Art Scene AU AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:28:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24836926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twohundredthousand/pseuds/twohundredthousand
Summary: This fic (written and posted with permission) is a thank you to RidiculousMavis, who has done some outrageously good stories for the Portrait fandom. It is a fic of her story "The Autobiography of Marianne Bonheur" which you should definitely go read.This was almost entirely written between the fourth and fifth chapters so while I was oddly correct in some predictions, other details don't quite match up.
Relationships: Héloïse/Marianne (Portrait of a Lady on Fire)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RidiculousMavis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RidiculousMavis/gifts).
  * Inspired by [The Autobiography of Marianne Bonheur](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24543400) by [RidiculousMavis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RidiculousMavis/pseuds/RidiculousMavis). 



> Also many thanks to intextrovert for the feedback and advice. I like writing with you :)

Her name, somewhere, behind. An arm over her waist. A warm body pressed tight to her back, and soft blankets above.

“Marianne.” More insistent this time.

Ah. Héloïse. The rain. The spring storm the night before, trapping most of the guests in the house. Brigitte bustling around with piles of blankets, consolidating children and assigning beds. A surprised look and “Oh, you’ll go in with Héloïse,” when Marianne asked where was best. 

A jostle. “Marianne. Please. Move.”

There is, in fact, quite a bit of space open in the middle of the mattress. She seems to have backed Héloïse all the way to the wall. Oops. Thankfully Héloïse and her warmth follow when Marianne grabs her hand and moves toward the center.

Rain drums steadily on the roof above, though not so loud as the worst of last night. She can feel the gentle rise and fall of Héloïse’s breath behind her. Faint gray light filters through the tall windows, illuminating the belongings strewn about. The latest stack of frames. A lovely scarf brought back from Milan draped over the armchair. A fresh ream of paper below the desk. A half-finished page in the (blessedly smaller, quieter) typewriter. 

Héloïse had told them about her latest essay last night, voice rising as Guillaume antagonized her argument until Marianne had to grab her waving arm to save the red wine. 

“He doesn’t understand!” Héloïse leaned in unnecessarily, failing to whisper at Marianne. “He doesn’t see that what Pablo is doing with space can also be done with time! What you’re going to do with time! He thinks -” 

“I know. I know, he is blind.” Marianne laughed at the antics, pulling Héloïse’s hand down into her lap. “But please think of the carpets. Think of the glassware.”

Héloïse’s eyes shone brightly as she downed the rest of the wine. “Problem fixed. Now. About your painting.”

She holds that same hand now, idly tracing between long fingers resting against her stomach. It’s pleasant to lie together, to feel Héloïse’s hips curve around hers, to feel the softness of her body against her back even through two nightgowns. It had been a long time since Marianne had taken anyone to bed and she missed this. There was the poet in those hazy first weeks in Paris, then once more after Héloïse’s initial appraisal of her work, but no one in the nearly year since. She had been kept busy with her work and the goings on at the house.

Héloïse had kept her occupied. 

Occupied with parties with others. Occupied with her ideas and mysteries when they were alone together. Occupied with the challenges she set to Marianne, the dare of ambition she lit in her, always in her head as she painted alone in her room.

Before then after meeting. Unknown then confided secrets. Together and apart and together and apart and together again.

The last year of Marianne’s life had been marked in months of Héloïse.

Together again.

“Why doesn’t Brigitte worry about men in your room?”

Her heart beats loud in her ears as she feels Héloïse take in a breath and rest her forehead against the nape of her neck. Time slows as Marianne looks down to watch Héloïse stretch her hand out and fold it around her own.

“You know why, Marianne.” She can feel warm breath against her skin. It makes her shiver.

She does know.

“It’s never felt like this before.”

“Like what?”

“Like it matters.”

Héloïse’s hand begins a path up her arm, skimming lightly and waking her body to her touch. It aches from months of waiting. Fingers pass over her throat to find her lips, soft, soothing. “Perhaps we’re inventing something new.”

Héloïse’s hand curls around her neck, palm firm on her jaw. Marianne lets herself be moved, tilted back, face turned to look at Héloïse. Being held so close in her gaze feels like looking into the sun.

“May I kiss you?”

“Please.” Marianne breathes. She has wanted this for so long. 

Héloïse kisses like she writes: deliberate, confident, experimental. Marianne lets her: mouth ajar, permissive, hungry. She can hear the gears turn in Héloïse’s head as soft lips slide against her own first in one spot then another, taking careful stock of the way she responds, breath hitching and fingers grabbing Héloïse’s hip. Marianne is too overwhelmed for all but the barest movement of her lips, tilting her chin to follow as Héloïse pulls away and comes back for another taste. There doesn’t seem to be a directive other than “explore” and Marianne has never felt so raw from a simple kiss; when she gasps and Héloïse takes the opportunity to swipe her tongue in and slowly across Marianne’s, her whole body contracts and she lets out a lewd groan into the quiet that shocks them both. 

Héloïse pulls back to rest her forehead against her shoulder and Marianne takes in ragged breaths, body thrumming. After so many months it is almost too much to be here in this moment, walking into the unknown.

They lie together in the stillness of the bedroom; surely Héloïse can hear the pounding of her heart. Marianne matches her breathing to the solid, warm body behind her and slowly she calms, fingers untangling from where they’re clutched at Héloïse’s nightgown. This is enough, for now.

Distant sounds of small feet pattering through the kitchen drift up the stairs, breaking the silence. Héloïse sighs and strokes her thumb across her cheek. “We should go help Brigitte with the guests.” Marianne nods, grateful for the interruption. There will be more time, and there is a day to face together. 

But first, another kiss.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ask, and ye shall receive.
> 
> The first part of this chapter, above the line, is a section of Autobiography's chapter 6 that ended up getting cut. I... expanded a bit.

Marianne keeps her hands where she can see them. They are not to be trusted. She is not to be trusted. The water is cooling but she is burning. Gripping the edge of the tub. Héloïse had been... Even the thought chokes in her. There's this throbbing. Sucking in air like she's drowning. Her hands are gone, she's gone. Héloïse had been…  
Out of the bath and she stands naked in the chilling air letting herself evaporate. When she is quite sure the trembling is done and the deep flush has left her face she puts on her nightgown and goes upstairs, her feet cold on the stone floor. She has been an age and there is no rustling of papers or scratching of pens coming from the room so perhaps Héloïse has fallen asleep.  
As quietly as possible she opens the door and slips into the room. Héloïse bolts upright in the bed, sheets flying, alarmed, and red in the face. "I thought you would be longer."  
"I thought you would be sleeping. I'm sorry I startled you," for Héloïse is out of breath and still wide eyed.  
"No, no," Héloïse only says and rolls to the other side of the bed, back to Marianne, stiff and unyielding but her breathing taking a while to settle. 

________________________________________________

Marianne crawls into bed and goes to curl up behind her, but is shocked when she’s pushed away. “It’s too hot,” Héloïse mumbles at the wall.

Odd. Very odd. Did she know? Somehow, what Marianne had just done? Even in the height of the summer they had fallen asleep curled together each night. Marianne stays on her side of the bed and contents herself with a hand brushed against Héloïse’s back. A palm trailed from her shoulder down her spine, following the dip and curve of her body. They had played with the children that afternoon; Héloïse would be sore. Marianne wanted to ease the ache.

“Please. Just… don’t.”

Marianne’s heart sinks. She had never heard that tone before, dark and quiet. She had never been rebuffed like this. Héloïse must know. Must know how she felt, how they both felt. Must know how ridiculous this charade was.

“Why? Why can’t I touch you?” She challenged.

Silence. Then the quiet shuffle of Héloïse turning over. “I can’t. I can’t do it.”

Marianne can just make out her jawline, her cheekbones in the light from the window. This woman, who had given her everything. Food when she was hungry. A coat when she was cold. Gowns and trips to the museum and even a summer in Milan. 

But this? This thing between them, together in bed? This culmination of every conversation about art and purpose and writing they’d had over the last two years? This was all she wanted from Héloïse.

“Please. For me.”

A beat. And suddenly Héloïse is kissing her, hard and desperate. She pushes Marianne back and into the bed, swinging her leg over to straddle her. 

Héloïse is above her, kissing her, hips rutting down into her and Marianne can hardly keep up, one hand tangled in the mess of blonde hair above and one sliding down the length of her body to slip underneath her hemline and feel the soft hair of her flexing thighs. But then Héloïse is pulling away to sit up, hiking her nightgown over her hips and then her head and Marianne marvels at the sight: Héloïse, naked, body soft and strong and wanting above her. It’s too dark to see her expression clearly but Héloïse grabs her hand and pulls it towards her center, choking out a low “Please. Please touch me.” and Marianne has been waiting for this for so long and that first pass is wet and holy. Marianne had never done this with another woman and isn’t sure but Héloïse seems unconcerned with precision, holding Marianne’s fingers against her body to press desperately against. 

It’s not enough though, because soon Héloïse leans down to kiss her, messy and hard against her lips and breathes into her mouth “I want you inside me” and Marianne breathes back “Yes, yes, yes. Show me.”. Héloïse sits up and guides her fingers further down. She’s so soft and slick it’s difficult, at first, to figure out where to be but then she finds it and her fingers sink in and suddenly Marianne understands what all her poets were saying because this? This is worth writing. Maybe someday Héloïse will write about them.

The angle is hard, and it’s an unfamiliar motion and she thinks maybe she isn’t getting her fingers very deep inside but Héloïse seems to like the press of two fingers just at her entrance. She’s moving her hips, hand pressing into Marianne’s chest and Marianne thinks there must not be any greater vision in the world than Héloïse above her, hair a halo of gold in the low light, looking down at her like she’s never seen something so beautiful. But then, oh God, Héloïse is touching herself in time with the curl of fingers inside and Marianne doesn’t like that her eyes close but doesn’t mind so much when she can feel Héloïse clench around her. She watches. It is a glorious sight. Héloïse. Her Héloïse. Hers? Yes, hers. 

Héloïse is desperate now, hips rocking frantically. Marianne has one hand splayed on her stomach and can feel the sheen of sweat over her flexing muscles. She’s pinned under Héloïse’s weight, now all resting on her hand on Marianne’s chest and Marianne has never been so glad to struggle to breathe. Above her, Héloïse’s head is thrown back, eyes tight shut, mouth open and neck flexed in a silent scream as she quiets herself in the still of the night.

And then the dam bursts. Marianne can see it, first, in the way Héloïse’s body crumples forward and saliva drips out of her mouth onto Marianne’s chest, before she can feel it in the clench around her fingers and the claw of nails into her skin. 

Héloïse comes down slowly, breathing deep. Marianne waits until she seems ready to remove her fingers and pull her down, arms wrapping around her shaking body. 

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.”


End file.
